


The Right Kind of Doctor

by CapnJack



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e13 End of Days, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:22:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnJack/pseuds/CapnJack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack is visited by an ancient friend to try and tempt him to open the Rift. 'End of Days' missing moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Kind of Doctor

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Jack's final words in the season one finale of Torchwood. Enjoy!

Jack put down the phone a little more forcefully than he'd intended, but the commander of UNIT was being infuriatingly unaccommodating and downright arrogant with the way he was handling the situation. Simply yelling down the phone at him wasn't going to do the world any favours, not with Romans and plagues and dinosaurs or whatever else was next pouring out through fissures around the world. _Yes_ , the cracks all diverged from Cardiff. _Yes_ , it was Torchwood Three's fault. _Yes_ , by extension it was really Jack's fault because he either didn't keep a close enough eye on his team or simply hadn't instructed them well enough.

Or, as he thought of the shouting match he'd shared with Owen a few hours earlier, he just hadn't chosen the right people for the job.

Still, the cause of the problem aided little in finding a solution. Jack's only advice to the commander was to stick with what they were doing, continue rounding up the results of the temporal and spatial shifts and to just keep following what their job descriptions instructed of them; Torchwood was going to sort it out.

Either that or he could just sit there, lie back and think of England.

Jack cursed that he'd allowed this to happen – if they hadn't been so carelessly trapped in 1941... Or maybe that wasn't the issue. Maybe if he hadn't allowed Owen to get so close to Diane. Was that it? Perhaps if he hadn't hired Owen at all. If he himself hadn't joined Torchwood all those years ago. If he hadn't run to Earth in the hopes of seeing the one man who could sort this out, and kicked off this entire chain reaction to begin with. He buried his head in his hands. No matter how far back he looked at it, all he saw was the end of the world and it being his fault. _Entirely_.

"Open the Rift."

Jack froze.

"Jack."

The voice tugged so intensely at his heart he thought it might burst right out of his chest – so quiet, so powerful, so _Northern_. Jack's head snapped up so fast he thought he heard his neck crack, but he didn't care. Standing in the doorway to his office was the one man his entire existence burned to see, hands by his sides. Navy jumper, leather jacket. Big ears, big nose and an even bigger heart.

Jack could barely remember how to breathe. "Doctor?"

The man smiled, a faint one filled with sorrow and compassion, and his eyes open and caring with a familiar storm burning inside them that Jack had been hoping to see again for centuries. In that moment he remembered how much he loved him – it wasn't normally easy to forget, but the feeling surged through him so clearly it were as if he were remembering it for the first time. Jack loved him so much he knew it would consume him, but every fibre of his being was begging desperately to run into that man's arms. The man who'd saved him, protected him and showed him all he could be beyond a coward. Taught him how to connect with the rest of the Universe and reminded him what it was to be dazzled by the smaller things as well as awed by the bigger ones.

Joy was the most prominent of emotions he could feel – such unadulterated happiness at finally seeing him and being rewarded for having waited this long. And he could finally _tell_ him. Tell him how much he'd dreamed about this moment; his every waking second when he wasn't thinking about Torchwood he was thinking about the Doctor, wondering what he was doing or where he was travelling, whether or not he was alone.

He couldn't even articulate how elated he was to see him; the feelings were too strong for him to put into words. In light of everything collapsing around him, Jack had finally been given the solution in the form of this wonderful man. Although, despite everything, he didn't run to him. He stood from his desk slowly and deliberately, staring intently at the man standing in his doorway as wariness began to settle in. In the blink of an eye he'd regressed from the world-weary leader of Torchwood Three to the scared young man who'd been left behind on the Gamestation.

He blinked, trying to make sure he wasn't imagining this. "Why—why did you leave me?" he managed to croak out.

The Doctor's didn't answer him, expression remaining rueful as if he were witnessing the final burning of the most ancient civilization to have ever lived. "People are dying, Jack. So many people. You've got to fix this."

The Doctor would know what to do. The Doctor always knew what to do. "How?"

"You've got to open the Rift."

Jack frowned, and couldn't help the confusion that was seeping into his consciousness. It was hundreds of years ago for him now, but he vividly remembered the events of that day in Cardiff when the Rift had opened and nearly pulled the whole planet apart. He remembered how hard they'd worked to reseal the Rift and make sure it couldn't do any more damage than it already had – it was one of the reasons he stood so resolutely sentinel beside it, protecting it from any other life forms seeking to take advantage of its power.

Now someone was trying to do the same but the Doctor was _here_ again. Jack's relief was tantamount to infinity, but it didn't seem – it didn't seem quite right. Not after everything they went through before, it didn't seem correspondent with his character that the solution was simply opening the Rift and letting whatever was inside fight its way out. He was attempting to puzzle it out in his mind as he tried to think of what to say next, and then he hesitated.

That was the moment his heart shattered.

"You're not really here, are you?" he whispered.

Emotional manipulation was a powerful thing, and Jack looked away and tried desperately to suppress the humiliating stinging sensation behind his eyes and the initial rush of joy and purpose that even now fluttered around his gut just by looking at the man in front of him.

The Doctor's expression remained unchanged. "Jack, you've got to listen to me. If you don't, thousands more people are going to die. This is the only way out."

Jack was too busy wrestling with his inner agony, his very soul screaming in protest at the unfairness of his existence.

"You're not here," he repeated. "It's not really you."

Still the Doctor's expression seemed sincere.

"Please. You've got to do this for me, Jack."

He simply stared, the sadness fading and the quiet rage beginning to build up inside of him at whoever would dare impersonate his Doctor – nobody could get inside his head, take that image, use it against him and get away with it. His mouth curled into a grimace, thunder rumbling in his eyes and searing at his insides and he fought to keep it at bay, but he knew the longer he stared the worse it would get. That old, wonderful face he'd died for, so close to him and still further away than it had ever been.

The Doctor stared. "Open the Rift."

Then Jack picked up his revolver from his desk and fired.

The shot echoed around the Hub and he was only glad no one had been inside at that moment to hear it except him. The bullet had bounced harmlessly against the wall and clattered down the stairs leading to the main floor, its clangs ricocheting loudly in the aftermath. He'd blinked instinctively when he'd squeezed the trigger, and when he opened his eyes again the apparition was gone. For a moment he stood transfixed, torn between relief and despair as he stared at the empty space where the Doctor had stood. A shuddering breath tore itself from him even as his arm remained poised where it was.

This time he didn't bother trying to stop the wetness spilling from one of his eyes, leaving a salty track down his cheek in its wake.

He couldn't quite process what had just happened – what he did know was that temptation had crawled in the back of his mind telling him to heed the Doctor's command, but then anger had quickly squeezed it out when he realised it was all fake. Something different, something _alien_ had made him hallucinate and see the Doctor, but he'd ended the vision before it could do him or anyone else around him any harm.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt.

With a tremble Jack dropped the revolver and it clattered across the desktop, and the sound became too much. He snapped, his breathing turning ragged and his shoulders beginning to shake in a way that they hadn't in years. Suddenly he was sitting down again because his legs couldn't support him, tugging at his hair as his breath came out in short gasps, gulping down all the oxygen he could between the whimpers being ripped from him by the sheer force of his feeling.

It felt like his soul was being ripped apart; someone had plunged their hand into his most painful and precious memories and thrown them back in his face. Years of keeping his composure and his unrelenting faith in the face of the Doctor giving him nothing back finally caught up with him and he howled in completely unrestrained anguish, curling inwards to try and protect himself against this emotional foe as the pieces of him tried to crawl back together.

He lost awareness of time in those passing moments when misery tormented him – it could have been a few beats of his heart or an hour – he could only see the painful images pressed fiercely to his retina as his eyes remained resolutely shut. Slowly the pain receded, returning to the deepest recesses of his mind where it belonged, becoming once more just the dull ache he was used to; the throbbing and pulsing like a klaxon, but hushed, and without falter.

Finally sitting up again he rubbed his eyes, feeling battered and worn as he tried to regain his composure, before clearing his throat and reminding himself that the end of days was all around him. He wasn't that scared, abandoned young man anymore – he'd become more than that. He had a team and they needed him, and he had wasted precious time. They needed to come up with a solution, find the source of that vision and save the world.

Just another day at the office.

And the Doctor had never felt further away.


End file.
